


No False Hope

by Bazylia_de_Grean



Series: Pilgrim's Crown [7]
Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-06 18:26:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16837993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazylia_de_Grean/pseuds/Bazylia_de_Grean
Summary: She is beginning to guess he does not love her. Oh, he likes her and it seems her closeness can bring him some measure of peace, but it is nothing similar to the fire burning steadily in her soul. Deòiridh finds that, in the end, she does not mind. She is not so conceited to believe she could heal Thaos – not when she has finally begun to grasp the enormity of his holy duty – but she can at least alleviate his pain – and thus also her own. It does not make her love untrue. Just more difficult.





	No False Hope

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Filigranka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/gifts).



> (Prompt from a tumblr kiss prompts meme, thrown at me by Fili: "Kisses because everything hurts right now including being loved by you but you’re also the only thing that makes it feel better.")

Thaos has not called for her for almost a week, ever since Iovara’s... passing. They still meet every day, for she is the one who assists him after the evening prayers, but Deòiridh guesses he chose her because it allows him not to talk. It does not surprise her; if anything, she was astonished that on that very day, he let her stay with him, and in the end seemed to welcome her company, and that they made love. It might have been a natural reaction for anyone else, but not for him.

She is beginning to guess he does not love her. Oh, he likes her and it seems her closeness can bring him some measure of peace, but it is nothing similar to the fire burning steadily in her soul. Deòiridh finds that, in the end, she does not mind. That day in the garden, when he told her that her love was no sin, when she did not think he already knew of it – she was asking for nothing but simply for acceptance. She still asks for nothing. Maybe Thaos is unable to feel such things; maybe he is unable to feel anything at all, unless he can mirror someone else’s feelings.

But he is not completely heartless. Every evening, after the prayers, when she helps him take off the headdress and looks at his white hair, she cannot help but recall that it was dark merely months ago. That weeks ago, it was grey. Deòiridh watches him quietly as she takes the wide embroidered collar off his shoulders, and her soul aches for him. She wishes she could do something – anything – but what could she possibly offer but her company? The mere thought of trying to comfort him is absurd – even more so the vision of trying to do that with words.

No one notices. Why would Thaos not choose his lover – no one talks about that, but it is common knowledge – to assist him when he has so many things to deal with; why would he not want a moment of respite? Anyone would. That is how people think of it; she understands that. Of course, they would not notice; nobody watches him as closely as she does. And she allows herself a small spark of hope that maybe no one knows him as well either.

She also knows herself well enough – it is impossible not to, being so close to Thaos; he does see so much it seems he notices everything – to be aware of the fact that she is trying to mask her own guilt this way. To force herself to think of something else than betraying Iovara - the tortures, her death – passing; to forget about people who used to be her fellow acolytes, and who trusted her while she pretended to be another heretic. There was no other choice, but now there is blood on Thaos’ hands as well as on her own; she has enough willpower to force herself not to think of it, but it is there, just below the surface of her consciousness. It hurts and it makes her feel sick, and she wants to heal – needs to heal.

Of course, she is not so conceited to believe she could heal Thaos – not when she has finally begun to grasp the enormity of his holy duty – but she can at least alleviate his pain – and thus also her own. It does not make her wish to help less sincere; it does not make her love untrue. Just more difficult.

* * *

“Thaos?” she asks him next evening, after the prayers. She is holding the winged headdress in both hands, but she tentatively reaches out with a thought.

He turns and looks at her; his eyes seem even darker now, when his hair is no longer a contrast to his pale face. “I am tired, that’s all.” A brief smile curves his lips. “I’ve already proven you needn’t worry, haven’t I?”

“Yes, but...” she breaks off when he touches her cheek.

His palm cups her face and he gently pulls her close, and kisses her forehead absent-mindedly. “Go get some sleep, little soulmistress. You look like you need rest more than I do.”

Deòiridh nods silently and leaves. She cannot really do anything else after he has all but dismissed her. They may be lovers, but he is still the high priest of Woedica, and she – just a lowly acolyte. And when they are not in the privacy of his chambers, there are lines she cannot cross until he invites her to.

But she does not heed his advice. He did not tell her not to visit him, after all.

* * *

“I was wondering if you would come anyway,” Thaos greets her in a completely neutral voice, glancing up from a letter he is reading.

Deòiridh looks at him, torn between the need to help and the impulse to respect his unspoken wish and leave him alone. But before, every time she went to him because she felt he needed it, he never turned her away.

“One word, Eminence, and I will leave,” she says quietly. Usually, she would call him by his name, but this seems appropriate – to let him know she understands what comes first.

Thaos’ eyebrows arch a little as he watches her; a spark of life and interest kindles in his eyes. “An interesting way to reproach me, soulmistress.”

Deòiridh meets his gaze timidly. “You know it wasn’t my intention.” She is speaking honestly; but it is also true that she is hurt by his rejection, that she is terrified by the prospect it might not be only temporary.

“But that’s what it was.” He smiles; it is a bit patronising and very brief and entirely meaningless. Then he sighs. “Don’t fret; I know the last thing you want is to add more weight onto my shoulders. But I’m also aware that you feel lonely and... helpless.” His expression becomes kinder. “Go and rest. There is nothing you can do. Not this time.”

She shakes her head. “I know it’s not much, but I can...”

Thaos lifts his hand and she falls silent. “No, soulmistress, this time you can’t.”

“But... Oh.” It dawns on her that it might be because of what he did to Iovara; that maybe the price for taking someone’s soul – for wielding such power – is just as terrible. “It... seemed so... effortless...” she stumbles.

“Many things that require the most effort often do.” He smiles again, wearily, but at least there is some bitter honesty to it. “It’s a very... precise... procedure. But unlike in many others, in this one, your soul and mind are both the pressure and the lever. It requires great caution not to... snap them.”

It is difficult to tell how much that single feat cost him, and whether it is not the entirety of what the Inquisition does. Deòiridh is certain of one thing, though. Strained muscles can be relaxed, sprained joints can be healed; it is the same for souls. Maybe she cannot help him, cannot reverse his abrupt ageing, cannot make the exhaustion go away for more than a few hours – but she can give him a moment of peace.

Slowly, she approaches him and touches his sleeve with just her fingertips. “Please, let me help.” She cannot bear watching him like this because it pains her – for too many reasons to list them all; but, at the core, they all stem from one and the same – her feelings. It hurts to be far from him and it hurts to be near him, but she cannot imagine her life without him; the only painless moments are when she falls asleep in his arms.

Thaos shakes his head, but eventually, he lets her palms rest on his shoulders, lets her drop a kiss onto his hair and run her fingers through it.

It may be that he does not love her, but he trusts her enough to let her touch his soul, even weakened as it is. It is not affection – or is it? – but it is something he does not allow anyone else. And, whatever he says when she visits him even though he did not call her, he has never told her to leave.

Deòiridh slowly moulds her soul to his so that he can bask in her glow – a weary, lost pilgrim on a cold night; the analogy does not seem quite fitting, but the image will not leave her mind. She keeps stroking his hair, slowly brushing some streaks of colour back into it; soft, careful touches, as if she could comb the burdens out of his soul by this, as if she could disentangle the worries from his mind. But it is not possible; her soul burns bright, but it is not that strong; she cannot give him back all those years lost too quickly. Maybe some. Maybe months. She is going to do her best and give him as much of that life-fuelling fire as she can.

Finally, Thaos tips his head back with a sigh, leaning against her. Deòiridh puts her arms around his neck loosely, holding him. He is breathing evenly and she would think him asleep if she did not sense the pulse of his mind, clearly telling that he is awake. But more serene than when she came here.

His cheek moves under her fingers when he smiles. “Persistent, aren’t you?”

“I have been an apt student,” she replies softly.

For a heartbeat, he does not react, and then he laughs quietly; she has not heard him laugh in weeks. “Yes, you have, soulmistress. You still are.” He puts his hand over hers. “And I must commend your ability to reproach me without meaning to.”

“You need rest,” she whispers into his hair. “You need...”

“Not yet,” he interrupts, serious again. “There’s still much to do.”

Deòiridh does not answer and simply holds him. She cannot force herself to find words; it would require her to acknowledge all the things she is trying to forget. And she just... She never wanted it all; intrigues, grand events that could change history, trials of faith – not like those she has been through, not like those others are going through. All she wanted was to be a missionary and to give people hope and to see their souls light up with it. All she wanted was to stay at Thaos’ side and to learn, and then to be allowed to admire and love him...

“Poor thing,” Thaos mutters. “Sweet, poor little thing.” He gets up, turns her hand over and kisses the inside of her palm. “The trials of faith can be without mercy.”

She is not sure what burns more; his lips on her skin or his words. “Is that how you... what you...” She casts her eyes down, onto their joined hands, unable to meet his gaze anymore. “Without mercy?”

“Mercy is... complicated.” He tilts her chin up, his eyes narrowed in focus. “As is love. Isn’t it?”

Deòiridh feels her cheeks heat up and glances away. It is no use when he can see her soul, but it is an instinctive reaction.

“Yes,” she whispers at last, finding the courage to look at him again. “Yes, it is.”

Thaos pulls her to him gently and kisses her deeply, as if he could drink strength from her mouth. She lets him; she welcomes it, even though she can taste the bitterness of herbs on his tongue – a sleeping draught, she realises, but she is too caught up in the moment to worry. And then, just as she starts kissing him back, he pulls away.

“Enough for today. You should rest now.”

“I’m fine. I...” Deòiridh shakes her head, trying to find words for what comes to her as naturally as breathing. “The more fire you draw, the brighter my soul burns.”

His thumb brushes across her cheek. “Has it ever occurred to you that it cannot go on forever?” His voice is stern. “That if you keep it up constantly, you will soon burn your soul to cinders?”

She opens her mouth to reply, but no sound comes out. He is right. Of course he is. “I’ve never...” she stutters finally. “I’ve never thought of it that way.”

“You’re too compassionate for that. And for your own good, too, it seems.” His palms cradle her head and he kisses her again – it is soft and lingering and makes her melt. “It’s late,” he adds, stepping away.

She does not move, just stares at him with a small, bashful smile. “You never said the word.”

“The... Ah. You mean I’ve never told you to leave.” Unexpectedly, Thaos smiles back. “That’s because your company is never... unwelcome.” He runs his fingers through her hair, brushing it back, petting her as if she was a kitten. “You know that, don’t you? You wouldn’t be here otherwise.” He kisses her gently, their lips barely touching at all; it makes her sigh. But when he pulls away, his gaze is focused, assessing. “You’re far more perceptive than people give you credit for, soulmistress. More perceptive than you give yourself credit for.”

Deòiridh holds his hand to her face, pressing her cheek into his palm. She had no idea how much she has been missing this until now. Maybe he does not love her, but with these small signs of affection it is easy to believe otherwise, and right now, that is what she needs. He was right, she thinks; there is no false hope.

“More than you give me credit for?” she murmurs.

A corner of his lips curls up briefly. “Perhaps even that.” He takes her hand, lacing his fingers with hers; he knows how she loves it. He always remembers all the tiniest, most important details; it is impossible to give that up. “Come, little soulmistress.”

They walk over to the bed and lie down. She leans on one elbow, lifts her hand and strokes his hair; it is soft, and she finds the gesture soothing. Thaos pulls her in for a kiss, and then another; warm, unhurried. Deòiridh takes the invitation and kisses him back deeply, but, as usual, there is more tenderness than passion in it. She presses small, soft kisses across his cheeks and temples and forehead and his closed eyes, and finally she curls up next to him, hiding her face against his neck, inhaling the scent of adra incense that always clings to him.

This is all she wants; to be free to love him, to be allowed to care. Because now that she has realised how important his cause is, every time she remembers her own insignificance, it feels like that day in the garden, when she thought her little earthly love was a sin...

Thaos’ arm tightens around her a little. “There is no sin in you, little soulmistress,” he says into her hair, in response to her thoughts. Then he kisses the top of her head. “No; you are a blessing.”


End file.
